There he was, in the glare of the spotlight, behind the great resolute desk (for a change, without his shoes propped up), delivering his first Oval Office speech, attempting to project a demeanor of calm and competence and leadership.
Except I couldn’t help but think he looked like a cockroach dressed as a used car salesman desperate for a sale, trying to con the American people into thinking that he was kicking my ass, so he could skitter safely back into his crack in the wall after the camera went dark.
Now, I’m just a spill, I’m only a spill. My vision is somewhat distorted, what with some of me evaporating or being eaten by bacteria while the heavy, gloppy rest of me congeals in a sticky mess that slathers your shores with toxic waste that is harder to clean up than an Al Gore affair.
And yet, to me, BO looked as if he were a crack addict on a six-week binge selling a pipe dream, long past being able to seize control of all the oil I’m spewing into the Gulf but damned if he wasn’t going to toss enough words out there and hope they made you forget about me. BO was angry about me, and the position in which I’d put him, but he was as helpless in front of that camera as a newborn with a soiled diaper. And, sitting behind that desk, he probably had one, too.
He even said it himself, his head barely poking out of my oily sheen: I don’t know what caused this, I don’t know how we’re going to fix this, but we’ve got to do something.
Oh, sure, he took action: He hired an Oil Spill Czar, one former Justice Department official Michael Bromwich, a guy so qualified he has no significant experience with oil and gas issues, but OH! is he an ass kicker.
Yes, there BO was, on Day 57, showing decisive action, pledging to exhaust every idea, like suddenly embracing the Dutch offer to send skimmers to pick up my oil, after declining it way back when I started gushing, back when BO KNEW, just days after I was born, that I could be his Titanic.
Yes, there BO was, after nearly 2 months of disaster, giving the speech he should have delivered in April. There he was, telling you he would refuse to accept inaction, except when he has a tee time.
Not that BO doesn’t have a plan. He’s going to plug my damn hole by completely ignoring me. To BO action means getting Congresscriminals off their duffs to finally deliver him a Cap-and-Tax bill he can be proud of.
I have to hand it to the Thinker in Chief, though … his plan really shows how you’ll tackle your dependence on foreign oil. I mean, with the moratorium on deep water drilling in the Gulf, the Bay of Rigs will suddenly become the Bay of Wind Turbines and Solar Panels and Efficient Cars and Homes. Meanwhile, investing your tax dollars in the development of clean energy technology will make all that oil slaking your coastline disappear before your very eyes!
After all, who needs those deep water oil rigs anyway? They can all move to Brazil, taking with them the 40,000 people who work on them, putting the hundreds of thousands of people back on the mainland who depend on them out of work. That’s a jobs jobs jobs bill right there, if I ever saw one.
To you, last night, BO was saying: “I don’t have all the facts, but I think Oil Spill acted stupidly … so I’m going to take advantage of this crisis to fulfill my destiny” … as America’s worst president ever.
Contrast BO’s words words words with Louisiana Gov. Bobby Jindal. While BO rolls up his sleeves to eat snowcones, Jindal, meanwhile, wades into the mud, building barrier islands to stop my flow from reaching precious estuaries, doing BO’s job for him, just like Jan Brewer.
Pretenders talk, leaders walk.
Yes, all I saw last night was a man shriveling inside a pressure cooker. His cheerleaders on MSNBC saw it too, retaliating with pouty recriminations from one guy who normally would murder his own mother to defend BO and another who used to get tingles upon hearing His voice.
They just couldn’t understand why BO hasn’t been able to stand on the shores of the Gulf, lift his arms in the air, and summon all of his otherworldly powers to part my oil from His water.
That’s because he can’t. Even after he meets today with my boss and feigns kicking BP’s ass, after all of the empty rhetoric, the fact remains that His response to me makes Bush’s response to Katrina look, well, like people from NOLA think Bush did a far better job than Obama is doing.
And that isn’t going to change because everything really comes down to this. Obviously, I am still kicking BO’s ass — 1.5 million gallons at a time.